From the Closet--A diary of Draco Malfoy
by Chaser
Summary: A bit angsty, tho not too much. Dark Humor. Basically MALFOY-ish. Please R/R
1. Default Chapter

                                          From the Closet 

                                             A Diary of

                                           Draco Malfoy

A/N: This is an account of Draco Malfoys summer after his fourth year (aka GoF). I'm going to try to focus on his personality as much as possible, so he shouldn't be too OOC (But do remember, this is fan_fiction_) _Italics_ are journal entries (or stressed words) Regular is… Uh, regular!

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Draco Malfoy picked up his quill, and stared sneeringly at his _journal_. Some stupid gift from a distant cousin. Trying to create family _ties_, he supposed wretchedly. But he figured he could _least_ write in it. After all, what's the point of having it if you're not going to use it? He contradicted himself all the time. He had so many useless items in his room, he almost wanted to chuck it all to the fires of Hades. Irritated, he wrote:

                                                                                   _June 27 1994_

_ I am only writing in this journal to please myself. Of course! What shall I do otherwise?_

Draco sneered at the paper. Then he remembered something—a phrase. 

 "Paper is patient" He said in a small whisper.

 _My name is Draco Malfoy. I am 14 years old._

"Gods, this is so stupid" He said, but continued:

 _I am currently at Malfoy Mansion. It's not like I can go anywhere else during the summer. My father is Luscius Malfoy. I call him Luscius, even to his face. He is in no way a father to me, nor shall he ever be. My mother is Narcissa Arquentius Malfoy. She is from a very rich family. I call her mother, not that she's any better that 'father'. They're both wretches who only think of me as a Death Eater, which I shall never be, money, and themselves. Never each other, or me. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me alive is that Luscius wants me to be a Death Eater. Stupid weakling. So I have learned to fen for myself. Sure, I have the house elves, but there are other things in the house that need to be done only by wizards. But I digress. Life here at Malfoy Mansion is terrible. There are Masquerades and Balls, but the only people to attend are Death Eaters! It is quite boring here too. I am required to take a daily course in the Dark Arts. I used to think they were interesting, and sometimes I still do, but I don't bend so easily to Luscius anymore, and he detests that. I yet again digress._

 Draco lay down his pen and looked at what he had written. It pleased him to say things behind his parents back. If only he could do it to their faces, and not instantly suffer the cruciatus curse or death. He sighed deeply. Draco had had a horrible headache—of couse! After all those hexes the redheads and potty and Granger fired on him and Crabbe and Goyle, he should very well have a headache!

Ugh… Crabbe and Goyle. Two blubbering, weak boulders, with brains smaller than a tro vaguelyremembered hearing this in a muggle film "Why am I surrounded by idiots?" Or something or other. But the statement was true. For he was indeed surrounded by idiots. 

 Draco even began to wonder as to why he even bothered with them—he could easily defend himself. He wasn't bulging muscle, but he wasn't a thin weak stick, like all of Voldemorts' followers. Again agitated, he continued on in his journal:

 _Voldemort and his followers are so very weak. Voldemort may be a trifle more clever than his followers, but he was no better off. But then again, perhaps he was. That idiotic Cornelius Fudge, he didn't even listen to the old coot, Dumbledore about Voldemorts return. _

  Draco lay his head down on his desk table. It was very draining to suddenly pour out a lot of things onto a piece of paper. But it felt rather good, like letting something off the chest. But his head ache was getting worse, and besides, Luscius was calling him. He would go for now.

 "I'll write a bit more tomorrow" He whispered.

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Sorry if this chapter has a few mistakes in it, Word keeps messing up, so I can't fix anything. The 'I'm surrounded by idiots' phrase came from the Lion King J I read 'Paper is Patient' In the Diary of Anne Frank. Draco, Luscius, and_ Mother_ belong to J.K. Rowling, and anybody else Harry Potter-ish that you recognize.

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_I don't own anything here,_

_So please don't sue!_             

Sorry, had to do it for old time's sake! Please review, I'll try to make future chapters longer!


	2. Entry 2

                               From the Closet 

                                   A Diary of

                                Draco Malfoy

A/N: This is the second journal/diary entry. In my fic, Draco has a somewhat…. Sentimental side. Not girly girly, but he's touchy about certain things. Which I think is OK since we don't know a whole lot about Draco from the books.

Insane Ramble: I literally HATE it when people call Hermione ''Mione' and 'Herm'. This has nothing to do with the fic, but I thought ya'll should know. It just bugs me!

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Draco once again picked up his quill, and dipped it in his fancy silver ink pot. He then scratched the following words onto paper:

                                                                              _July 30 1994_

_ I hate Pansy Parkinson. She is an ugly pug faced idiot _(A/N: seems to be Dracos word, eh? IDIOT!) _and I hate her. She came over yesterday, and would NOT let go of my arm the entire time!_

_ "Oooh" she squealed over and over again. Stupid prat. I wish she'd just get a L-I-F-E! "Draco this, Draco that, DRACO DRACO DRACO!! It is all I ever hear! Luscius says, "Draco, you know you're a Death Eater, Mother says, "Draco! Wipe that smirk off your face, Pansy says, "Oooh, Draco, let's get married!". I hate it all! In fact, I wonder why I was even born. To act like a spoiled prat, to act like my 'parents'  'love' me? Well, whilst we're on the subject, there is no such thing as love! _

"Ha" Draco scoffed. 'Love' was the only thing he knew any REAL thing about. He had read silly love novels, books on love potions, anything! He often pondered how the beautiful, rich, smarmy man got the beautiful, poor, kind girl on the other side of the tracks. Draco was smarmy, rich, and to say the _least_, beautiful! But the only girl that liked him, only for his money, mind you, was Pansy the pug-nosed Parkinson. Ha! She was more like Parkinson's Disease! 

The only person I know who even remotely knows about love is that stupid mudblood, Granger. Pottys parents are dead, and Weasels parents don't have enough money to love. But Granger comes from muggles. So they probably love their daughter, with simpering idiotic smiles. But it's not like she'll ever LOVE. Please, what guy, other than Weasel would love a fuzzy haired bookworm? Heck, maybe even Weasel wouldn't! It might just be a phase. So the mudblood probably is just destined to marry a book. But there are more pressing matters to be discussed.

_My parents are just about to kill eac other. Or Narcissa is about to kill Luscius. I have decided to call 'Mother' Narcissa. Over the past two days, she no longer even deserves to be called 'Mum'. Dad put the Crutiatus curse on her, and ever since she has been raging mad! She shot the killing curse over and over again at him, put the unforgivable curses on him, did everything in her power except make him happy, and kill him. Which, at the way thing's are going now, he might just be happier dead. So I hope Narcissa keeps him alive. Besides, somebody has to make the money. It's not like Narcissa would ever get off he lazy butt and do something, whereas I clean. A LOT. I just act surprised when people tell me to do things at Hogwarts. Just to cover up. We have several House-Elves, but cleaning is punishment for me. I don't even care anymore. The House-Elves help me, because they pity me. And they don't make any effort to hide it. I hate it. I hate for people to think I'm weak. Because I'm not. I am several times stronger than Luscius, mentally, even physically. Luscius comes home every night so wore out, and beaten—HA! He deserves it!_

Draco stared at his paper, a white-blonde strand of hair over his left eye. He pushed it away. Just like he pushed everything else away. Luscius had taught him never to get attached to anything, for happiness, like life, was sure to end, very soon. So Draco pushed everything away. Except Crabbe and Goyle. You couldn't shove those two away with crowbars. Besides, Draco hadn't listened completely to Luscius, he had to keep something around. He only wished he could shove Parkinsons Disease Pansy away. But that would be a miracle, and as Luscius tells it, miracles just don't happen. And, this was true, of the very few things that were that Luscius fed him. Most of it was lies. Lies, lies, lies.

Lies. They can be the only way to get by in this world sometimes. Most of the time.

Dracos mind involuntarily went back to Granger.__

 Hermione Granger is the MUDBLOOD. And I probably hate her more than Potty or Weasel. She is the lucky one. She is the pure one. 

As much as Draco hated to admit it, this was true. She was the lucky one. She had her large group of friends from all houses. She was pure, clean. He lived his life by means of cruelness and jealousy. Very opposite from Granger.

 _I am dirty, a dirty ferret._

 Draco wrote miserably. He had made everybody hate him. He had even come to hate himself, and to bask in his own self pity.

 Draco lay down his quill, and immediately picked it up again. He looked to see how sharp it was. Then he drew a very tiny scratch onto his left hand. A small prick of blood showed up along the line of the scratch. Pleased, he wrote one more sentence in his journal:

 _Until next time._

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_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_I own nothing here,_

_So please don't sue!_

How did you all like it? Was he way too OOC? Please tell me! BTW, Draco is NOT going to be a self injurer, or slasher. I love reviews, and any advice! Don't hesitate!


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